Philadelphia has a very high homicide rate. It is approximately twice that of Chicago (a beautiful city with some extremely dangerous areas) and three times New York City’s. More on NYC possibly later but they once had over 2000 homicides a year, which dropped to around 500 within a year or two. This significant decline is often attributed to broken windows and zero tolerance policing instituted by the city. There are probably other contributing factors as well, but that policing strategy’s effects should not be discounted.

During my tenure of service in Philadelphia, there was a spike in the city’s number of killings, One weekend, more people died in the city than in Iraq, where the US was still involved in.

Exasperated by the lack of action, the elected DA I served under exhorted the city’s administration to do something. Options discussed were the usual suspects, more police presence, neighborhood involvement, funding for schools. Also calling in the National Guard to patrol the streets. And of course, after much discussion and finger pointing, not much was actually done. That year’s total number of homicides was one of the highest in recent years.

I’ve often reflected on the idea that something other than words are necessary. Actions louder and all that.

In recent years, it’s been exceptionally frustrating interacting with people who don’t really try to understand what I’m saying. It’s ok if someone doesn’t, but when they aren’t interested in actually figuring it out, it is disheartening. It’s more than laziness and lack of curiosity. It’s willful blindness.

I realized that many aren’t comfortable with acknowledging the presence of evil, much less confronting it. A detective friend said that it just feels easy to ignore than to do something. He went on to say that those who did confront are rare and precious.

Brought tears to my eyes.

Those who know, know.

People can hide behind fear, not wanting to get hands dirty, lack of concern, refusal of liability or responsibility, pride, whatever but there are consequences.

In the English novel The Four Feathers written around the Victorian era, a military officer resigns right before his regiment leaves to fight in Africa. There are several reasons but one of them is definitely a measure of fear. Disgusted, his three best friends and fiancée each give him a white feather to commemorate and signify his cowardice. The novel goes on to recount how he redeems himself and to return each feather to the giver.

This all sounds rather archaic but there is value here. Mainly the accountability for actions or lack thereof. I don’t really want to recount what I experienced quite a bit of – the difficulty of finding those who would stand by, for, and with.

I was blessed, however, with some who did. They, as my friend aptly describes, are rare and precious.

All did more than just talk.